


Common Cold

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:39:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the snuffling and sneezing is not only sad and pathetic, but it also kicks his protective tendencies into high gear.  Not quite Defcon One territory – there's no terrorists involved and Matt's probably not gonna die from a bad cold – but close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest round 18, for the prompt "comfort food"
> 
> * * *

Matt doesn't miss their dates. 

He may show up early, claiming that he made a great connection on the cross town bus and naively thinking that John doesn't realize that this always happens on the nights when he's mentioned that he's going to whip up some lasagna or hash-and-mash or throw together a pot of Gramma Hurley's home-made stew. He more likely shows up half hour late, usually rambling about some techno gizmo he just _had_ to pick up or the latest "mission" he's running with his "guild". On those occasions he usually doesn't shut up until John grabs him by the collar and _makes_ him, and if he thinks that John hasn’t figured that out either then John just may have seriously overestimated the kid's IQ. 

Point is, Matt is consistent in his inconsistency. Late or early, but never on time. And never, ever a complete no show.

Until tonight.

So John paces. John worries. Because John's a cop and he knows exactly, in technicolour detail, what can befall a cute skinny kid on the A train or the 57 Local. And because Matt's _his_ , and – though he's done his best to tone down the macho he-man overprotective posturing shit – at heart he still thinks that it's his goddamn job to keep the person he loves safe. 

So he turns on the set and watches the Rangers chase the puck and has no idea what the score is. He stalks to the living room window every five minutes and scans the street and nearly runs outside shoeless and frantic when he sees a hunched figure in dark clothing staggering down the middle of the road, but then he realizes it's actually a black garbage bag blowing in the wind and manages to stop before he makes a complete fool of himself in front of the entire neighbourhood. He dry swallows three antacid. And he forces himself to wait a full two and a half hours before he picks up the phone.

He gets Matt's answering machine. Hangs up with a curse and tries again.

On the third attempt, just as he's deciding that he's going to have to get in touch with a few discreet co-workers to start the ball rolling on the calls to hospitals while he breaks local land speed records on the drive to Matt's place, the kid finally – finally! – answers the goddamn phone with a sleepy and mumbled 'hello'.

"This better be fucking good," John says. Not exactly the start he wanted to have, but when a guy's spent the last two hours cataloguing the various physical and emotional damages that could have befallen the person he's planning to spend the rest of his life with… well, a guy is entitled to be a little testy. 

"…McClane?"

"Who the hell do ya think, Dwight D. Eisenhower?" John snaps. It's only when the words are out of his mouth that he realizes that Matt's initial greeting sounded less like Matthew Farrell and more like Harvey Fierstein. 

Perhaps there is more to Matt's truancy this evening than simple forgetfulness. 

His incredible detective skills are borne out when Matt sniffles before coughing into the receiver. "You work the whole bald thing a lot better than he did," he foghorns into the phone. The next cough sounds like it's coming from his toes, and John winces in sympathy at the harsh barking noise screeching down the line. "Sorry I bailed. I fell asleep. Not feeling so hot."

John bites back on the _no shit, Sherlock_ because the kid IS sick. And the snuffling and sneezing is not only sad and pathetic, but it also kicks his protective tendencies into high gear. Not quite Defcon One territory – there's no terrorists involved and Matt's probably not gonna die from a bad cold – but close. 

He's still pacing. He makes himself lean against the kitchen island, cradles the phone against his ear. "You taking something for it?"

"Buckley's. And these cough and cold pills that Mrs. Ryerson in 4B found in the back of her medicine cabinet before she left for bingo."

Matt's made his distrust of modern pharmaceuticals pretty fucking clear in the year-plus that he's known him, so the fact that Matt answers in the affirmative clues him in as to just how rotten the kid must feel. He also knows that Mrs. Ryerson was alive when God was still in diapers, so whatever she found buried behind her denture cream and liver pills probably expired sometime during the Nixon administration. "You want me to come over?" he asks.

He's already tucked his wallet into the pocket of the old sweats he's wearing, decided that his leather jacket will be sufficient against the chill of the car as long as he zips it up over the worn wifebeater. 

"No, it's too far," Matt says, in that tone of voice that really means _absolutely, yes please_. Holly used to use it when he asked her if she _really_ wanted him to trudge down to Li's at 3am for rocky road when she was big as a hot air balloon with Lucy. 

"You sure?"

Car keys? John turns in a slow circle, then remembers tossing them onto the sideboard when he got home from work before his mad dash to the can. He scoops them up, tucks his index finger into the ring to stop them from jingling as he bends awkwardly to toe into his shoes. 

"… I'm sorta hungry."

Uh huh. John switches the phone to his right ear so he can snag his jacket off the peg; angles his wrist so he can check the time. If he floors it he should just make it before Big Jim shuts the doors. "I'll bring you chicken soup from Saul's," he promises.

"Actually…" Matt hacks up what sounds like a baseball sized slice of lung tissue, and John stops and clenches the phone and mentally runs down the list of overnight clinics close to Matt's apartment. He doesn't start breathing normally again until Matt clears his throat and snuffles pitifully into the receiver. "Sorry," he croaks out before starting again. "John, can you bring me some cheesies? And root beer. I'm all out."

John actually lifts the phone away from his ear to stare at it before replacing it slowly, because _what the hell_. "I'm not bringing you fuckin' cheesies, kid."

"But I can suck on them until they get all soft and—"

"Chicken soup and weak tea," John says firmly. "And I'll stop at the drug store and get you some vapor rub for that chest."

"I'm gonna smell like Mrs. Ryerson," Matt protests weakly.

"Hot," John says. There's a garbled noise from the phone that may be a laugh before it falters off into another rasping, phlegmy sounding mess. John flexes the fingers of his left hand slowly because he really needs to relax and make it to Matt's in one piece and worrying about the sound of that cough is a goddamn recipe for disaster. "Hang in there, kid."

"Yeah. Thanks, John," Matt answers. "Love you."

"Love you too, Matty."

* * *

He makes it to Saul's with five minutes to spare, and when Big Jim hears about the kid he throws in a hank of white cabbage and some onions and honey free of charge. John thinks he'll have a better chance of winning the powerball than getting Matt to gargle boiled cabbage juice or drink the infusion of onion juice and honey, but then he remembers that he's John fuckin' McClane. If he can surf a goddamn fighter jet than he can sure as hell convince one sickly scrawny nerd to suck it up and drink.

But he still stops at a convenience store on the way to Matt's to pick up some root beer. Just to make it up to him, 'cause that onion-honey combo is truly gonna taste like shit. He can have one in the morning when he's feeling better.

He's halfway to the turnpike before he turns around and goes back to the store for the cheesies.


End file.
